Plague Ship (A Ballineau/Ross Medical Thriller)

by Goldberg, Leonard

  David smiled at his daughter, thinking the child was so much like her mother, Marianne. She was kind and generous and always concerned about the other person. It must run in the genes, David decided. “I’ll let you know when he’s up to it.”

  “Good.”

  “But for now,” David went on, “you’ve got to protect yourself and Juanita against the nasty virus. So you must take your pills as directed and wear your special mask at all times. And remember, don’t touch the duct tape that’s covering the ventilation duct. If a piece comes off, tell me and I’ll replace it.”

  “It’s going to get really hot in here, Dad,” Kit complained mildly.

  “That’s why you should keep the sliding door to the balcony wide open. It’ll let fresh air in from the sea.” David’s gaze drifted out to the balcony of the cabin and to the ocean beyond. The water was becoming choppy again, the sky grayer, as the outer forces of the storm began to reach the Grand Atlantic. The storm was monster-sized, measuring 200 miles in diameter, with winds clocked at over eighty miles an hour. The luxury liner was currently moving away from the other edge of the tempest, heading on a southeasterly course. This maneuver would delay the ship from making landfall by an additional seven hours. “And don’t forget,” David said at length, “you and Juanita must stay away from crowds. All meals will be served buffet style, so take your food on deck and eat away from all the other passengers.”

  “What should we do with our plates?” Kit asked.

  “There’ll be giant bags to put them in,” David answered, then quickly warned, “but don’t touch those bags.”

  “I won’t,” Kit said and coughed briefly.

  David stiffened in his chair. “Do you have a cough?”

  “No, Dad,” Kit told him. “I was gargling with some mouthwash and a little of it went down the wrong tube.”

  David hurriedly glanced over to Juanita, who nodded, verifying the incident. “So,” David came back to his daughter, “no cough at all.”

  “None,” Kit replied.

  “And no fever or chills either, eh?”

  “None,” Kit said, unconcerned. “I feel good, Dad.”

  “Great!” David gave Kit a tight hug and watched her run out to the balcony, where she spread her arms out wide against the wind, like a bird about to take flight. In her diary, which David now read secretly, Kit had written she wished she and Dad and Juanita and Carolyn were all birds that could take wing and fly away from the sick ship. That’s what Kit called the luxury liner—a sick ship. And for some, David thought on, it was going to turn into a death ship. He got to his feet and walked over to Juanita. In a low voice he told her, “Make certain Kit follows my instructions. Watch her closely.”

  “She will not leave my eyesight,” Juanita promised.

  David left the cabin and decided to take the stairs down to the sick bay. Even with his mask on, there was no way he was getting on an unventilated elevator that was crowded with passengers. It would be the perfect contagion zone. Others must have had the same idea, because the staircase was now filled with people. As David started down the steps, his mind returned to Kit. How in the world did she avoid catching the virus? he wondered for the hundredth time. How? Like Will, she had been so close to the infected bird that was spewing the avian flu virus into the air. Maybe she had some type of immunity to the virus or maybe it was only pure luck. But there was another possibility that made David shudder. Perhaps Kit had gotten a relatively small dose of the virus from the bird or from Will, and it was only a matter of time before she too came down with the illness. God! Don’t let that happen! Please don’t let that happen! Just the thought of a deathly ill Kit unnerved him. Taking a deep breath, he collected himself and exited the staircase on the G level.

  The beauty spa and salon was closed, its doors locked shut. Masked crewmen were wiping down the walls in the passageway with a disinfectant, while others sprayed the air with something that smelled nauseatingly sweet. All those precautions were mainly for show, David told himself. A group of people coughing continuously would fill the air with a billion times more virus than the disinfectant could kill.

  In the reception area of the sick bay, Arthur Maggio was slumped in a chair, totally exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “Any new cases?” David asked.

  Maggio shook his head. “Not so far, but the boy is deteriorating rapidly. And his mother is now coughing as well.”

  “With bloody sputum?” David asked quickly.

  “Not that I’ve seen. But her cough is coarse and raspy.”

  “Shit,” David muttered under his breath. He had hoped that Marilyn would somehow avoid catching the virus, despite her close contact with Will. But deep down he knew it was inevitable. “What about the boy’s stepfather?”

  “Mr. Wyman’s fever has apparently spiked up,” Maggio said. “Your nurse has gone to his cabin to see if she could be of some assistance.”

  “And the other two sick passengers?”

  Maggio shrugged weakly. “I haven’t heard from them, so I assume there’s been no change.”

  “Don’t assume,” David told him. “They could be so sick they can’t even pick up the phone. Or they may be dead. You might want to call them and see how they’re doing.”

  Maggio wearily pushed himself up from his chair and reached for the phone.

  David entered the examining room that had two tables side by side. On the table nearest him, Will Harrison was gasping for air. His face had a purplish-red color, with bloody sputum caked around his oxygen mask. David didn’t bother to listen to the boy’s chest with a stethoscope because he could clearly hear the sounds coming from Will’s lungs at a distance. There were loud wheezes and rhonchi—noises made by air trying to flow through bronchial tubes obstructed with blood. The only good sign was that the boy had lost consciousness and would die peacefully.

  On the examining table across from Will was his mother, Marilyn Wyman. She appeared pale and worried, and was coughing intermittently.

  “You might be more comfortable in your cabin,” David suggested softly. “I could look after Will for you.”

  “I have to be here, just in case he needs me,” Marilyn said in a quiet voice.

  David nodded, aware that all the forces in heaven and hell couldn’t pull the mother away from her dying son. “I know.”

  Marilyn wetted her parched lips with her tongue and coughed up phlegm that rattled in her throat. “Is there any drug that will help him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” David said honestly. “But we’ll support his breathing with everything we’ve got and hope he makes it through.”

  “You’ve been very kind to us, David.”

  “Well, you’re one of my favorite people.”

  Marilyn managed a shadow of a smile, but it faded quickly. “I took the Tamiflu capsules, like you directed.”

  “Good.”

  “Will it help?”

  “Time will tell.”

  Marilyn coughed again and swallowed it back. “My immune system won’t be able to put up much of a fight against the virus, you know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I finished a course of chemotherapy for breast cancer last month,” Marilyn informed him. “My oncologist told me my immune system would be suppressed for a while.”

  “That may not matter since Tamiflu’s action doesn’t depend on one’s immune system.”

  “Well then,” Marilyn said as the faint smile returned to her face, “score one for the home team.”

  David patted her shoulder, admiring the woman’s pluck and courage in the face of a deadly virus. She was the perfect example of Ernest Hemingway’s definition of courage, which was grace under pressure.

  Out of the corner of his eye David saw Thomas Steiner, the radiologist, waving him over to the
x-ray room. He patted Marilyn’s shoulder once more, telling her, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  David strolled over to the radiology area and closed the door behind him. Steiner was standing in front of a row of viewboxes that held a series of x-rays.

  “The boy is as good as dead,” Steiner said in a clinical voice. “His chest film shows a complete white-out.”

  David studied the x-ray briefly. Will’s lungs were now totally opacified, with no evidence at all of any aeration. Instead of air, the boy’s lungs were filled with blood and mucus. “Nobody survives this,” David said grimly.

  “Nobody,” Steiner agreed.

  “Have you got a chest film on the boy’s mother?”

  Steiner shook his head. “Does she need one?”

  “Not yet,” David said. “But she will soon, I’m afraid.”

  “Then she too will die,” Steiner said somberly. “But not before watching her only child pass away. Can you imagine anything sadder?”

  “No,” David said, with a deep sigh. “I can’t.”

  There was a loud rap on the door.

  “Come in!” Steiner called out.

  Carolyn rushed into the room and over to David. “Rutherford needs you on deck pronto,” she said urgently. “He’s got a revolt on his hands.”

  twelve

  Dozens of masked passengers crowded around William Rutherford and shouted obscenities and yelled invectives at him. Leading the uproar was Richard Scott, who towered over Rutherford and was making threatening gestures.

  “You’ll turn our goddamn phones back on or there will be hell to pay,” Scott raged.

  “But it’s not under my control,” Rutherford tried to explain. “I can’t—”

  “Bullshit!” someone in the crowd interrupted.

  “Truly,” Rutherford pleaded. “All phone service, including your cell phones, was cut off by order of the Centers for Disease Control.”

  “Then order them to turn it back on,” Scott demanded.

  “I can’t,” Rutherford told him. “It’s an agency of the federal government, and they have jurisdiction over all—”

  “We want our phones!” a voice bellowed out, and others joined in, repeating the line in a loud chorus.

  “We want our phones!”

  “We want our phones!”

  “We want our phones!”

  David pushed through the crowd that had now grown to over a hundred, with even more passengers on their way. The gathering was becoming increasingly surly, and it showed in the group’s manner and appearance. The men were unshaven and poorly groomed, the women with little makeup and unconcerned with their attire. David nodded to himself, remembering that when survival was at stake, outward appearance was the first thing to go. Staying alive took precedence over how one looked.

  Finally David reached Rutherford’s side. The captain’s face showed no obvious evidence of him being riled by the menacing crowd, but the underarms of the man’s shirt were soaked with perspiration.

  “I hear you’ve got some trouble,” David said calmly.

  “More than a little,” Rutherford replied under his breath. He muffled a cough and cleared his throat. “I can’t seem to get through to them about the phone service.”

  “Let me try.”

  “Be my guest.”

  David turned and raised his arms, palms out, to the crowd. “May I have your attention?”

  The hostile throng booed loudly.

  David tried again. “May I—”

  The crowd booed even louder, then a voice cried out, “Give us back our phones!”

  “Yeah! Yeah!” a dozen others joined in.

  “Quiet!” David roared above the voices. “Quiet, damn it!”

  “Who the hell are you?” a man in the second row yelled.

  “Somebody you’d better listen to,” David yelled back. “Particularly if you want to know how the bird flu is going to affect this ship.”

  The crowd went silent, but they still shifted around uneasily.

  Richard Scott stepped forward and came face to face with David. Again he was wearing only tennis shoes and a swimming suit. He was the same height as David, but his well-muscled body and broad shoulders made him seem a lot bigger. “Screw you and your lecture!” he snarled. “We want our phone service back!”

  David gave the investment banker an icy stare. “Now would be a good time for you to zip it up.”

  “And what if I don’t?” Scott challenged him.

  David controlled his temper, now wondering if Scott was going to make a stupid move or was just showing off in front of a crowd again. “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you?”

  “Not according to my friends,” Scott said with a smirk.

  Scott’s friends moved in behind him. There were three of them, and all had the look of well-conditioned athletes. The one closest to Scott was the man with a rose tattoo on his arm. His face was impassive, but he had his fists clenched tightly. The crowd was now dead quiet as they watched and waited to see which side would give in.

  David quickly sized up Richard Scott and the men with him. Scott and the tattooed man were the most dangerous. The other athletic types were less aggressive and would hesitate before jumping into a fight. That would give David all the time he needed. David moved slightly to his left to give himself a better angle at Scott’s neck. Scott moved with him, keeping his eyes locked into David’s.

  The tension between the two grew so heavy, it seemed to hang in the air.

  Rutherford leapt in and separated the two men. “We’ll have no fights!” he ordered. “We have enough trouble aboard this ship as is.”

  David continued to stare at Scott, waiting for the banker to make any movement at all. Watch the head, he told himself. The head always moved before the hands.

  “Please!” Rutherford begged. “Listen to what Dr. Ballineau has to say. He can answer your questions far better than I.”

  The crowd remained silent and turned their attention to David. Rutherford used his bulk to put even more distance between the two men.

  David stepped away, but kept Scott in his peripheral vision. He didn’t trust the banker one iota and knew the man was capable of attacking from the front or rear, whichever gave him the clearest advantage. And Scott’s three muscular friends would soon join in. That would make it four against one. David decided he’d still win, but there was a real chance he’d get hurt.

  “Please, Dr. Ballineau,” Rutherford urged.

  David stood on a lounge chair so he could see more of the crowd. “We couldn’t turn our phones back on even if we wanted to.”

  “Why not?” Scott pressed.

  “Because the United States government has an Air Force plane circling above us and jamming all incoming and outgoing calls,” David answered. “The plane is called an EA-18 Growler and it can block any and all electronic transmissions. Currently it is blocking all cellular and landline phone service to and from shore. The only communications allowed are radio calls involving the federal authorities, and landline phone-to-phone calls aboard the Grand Atlantic.”

  “Well, it can’t stay up there forever,” Scott challenged. “And when it goes to refuel, our cell phone lines will be open again.”

  There was a chorus of “Yeah! Yeah!” from the crowd.

  “That won’t happen,” David explained calmly. “When that plane leaves to refuel, it’ll be replaced by another Growler. There’s a squadron of those planes on an aircraft carrier that’s following every move we make.”

  A few grumbles arose from the crowd, then they went silent. Several of the passengers walked away slowly, dispirited, but most stayed, their eyes glued on David.

  Finally Scott spoke again, “How do you know so much about these planes?”

  “The federal authorities gave us all the details,” David said,
with a nod to Rutherford. “And they also told us they intend to keep your phone lines jammed for the immediate future.”

  “Why would they do that?” a female voice in the middle of the gathering asked.

  “To prevent you from doing exactly what you’re doing now,” David told him.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Panicking and acting like a bunch of fools,” David said bluntly.

  “How should we react?” the man with the red-rose tattoo spoke out. “For Chrissakes! We’re trapped aboard this ship with a goddamn virus that will kill all of us!”

  “That may not be true,” David said in an even tone. “As you know, we’ve had an outbreak of bird flu aboard the Grand Atlantic. Only a few have been affected, and the rest of you are now wearing protective masks and taking Tamiflu. So there’s every reason to believe that this outbreak will be limited and future cases will be mild, so mild that—”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” Scott cut in, “why take away our phone service?”

  “Because there’s a second possibility,” David went on, “which is a nightmare scenario. It’s possible that many of us have already been exposed to this virus and will soon become sick. And it may turn out that this virus is resistant to Tamiflu. In that event, we’ll end up with a ship filled with terribly sick people who are very contagious.”

  “But that still doesn’t tell us why we’ve been shut off from the world,” Scott pressed on. “We won’t spread the virus by making a phone call.”

  “But you will spread the word and demand to be rescued, for which you’ll pay any price.”

  “Damn right,” Scott said at once. “I’ll write a check for a hundred grand right now to be airlifted back to New York.”

  “So would I!” a voice from the rear of the crowd vowed.

  “And so would a lot of others,” David continued. “And suddenly ships and boats and helicopters would arrive in droves to rescue you and take you ashore, where you’ll transmit this killer virus to God-only-knows how many people. And a fair number of those will end up like the little boy down in the sick bay whose life we’re trying to save. In essence, then, you’d be starting a worldwide, bird flu pandemic.”